


So You've Conquered Your First Planet

by beamirang



Series: The King is Dead (Long Live the King?!) [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex is not a damsel in distress, Alien Abduction, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Disaster Michael Guerin, Alien Planet, Antar, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of War, Michael is a King, Michael is secretly a puppy, No one tells Michael anything, Royalty, alex is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamirang/pseuds/beamirang
Summary: Apparently, human bitchiness is something of an aphrodisiac to Michael’s people. It explains a thing or two.





	So You've Conquered Your First Planet

Michael enters the Capital with a ring of silver trumpets, a chant of a name that isn’t his own and an impending sense of dread stronger than anything he’s felt in the last five years. That includes battles. It includes intergalactic space travel, and it includes having to make nice with the walking war crime that is Jesse Manes.

Fighting, he’s apparently good at. Space travel, also good at. And no one is more surprised than Michael to learn that he’s actually capable of diplomacy. He managed it on Earth and he’s managed it here on Antar. Hell, he’s best buddies with the guy who has been running the secret Rebellion for the past four and a half years. They’ve never hung out - what with them both being marked for a grizzly and very public death should they ever be captured - but they’re totally BFFs. After all this shit is done, Michael’s gonna buy the guy a beer. Or the Antarian equivalent.

All of these things. All of these qualifiable, tangible things, mean shit when stacked up against the reason he’s here.

Oh, on paper it’s to liberate his people from tyranny, protect planet Earth from the creeping spread of invasion and to reclaim his birthright. That’s how he’s sold it, at least.

In reality, it all boils down to the fact that some Antarian prick came to Earth to kill Michael before anyone could find him and use him as a political figurehead of a rebellion, and encountered Alex instead.

Now, Michael is sympathetic to a point. He too fell hypothetical antenna over heels for Alex Manes, and he at least had the fortune of meeting a younger, softer, less terrifying Alex. This dumb bastard met Alex an hour, maybe two after Michael jumped into bed with his best friend, so he was met with the full force of Alex at his most pissed. By all accounts - all accounts being Kyle Valenti so, pinch of salt - when informing Alex that he was here to brutally murder Michael and his siblings, Alex leveled the latest alien threat with a look that managed to encapsulate the entire history of humanity’s bitchiness in one ’do I fucking look impressed’ expression and it was downhill from there.

Mr. Douchebag Alien Super Villian then stole Michael’s favorite human and decided he’d give Alex the whole fucking planet as a courting gift.

Apparently, human bitchiness is something of an aphrodisiac to Michael’s people. It explains a thing or two.

So. Now Michael is here, at the head of an army made up of Humans and Antarians alike, marching up the steps to a palace that is and apparently always has been his, and he’s just about shitting himself.

The last time he and Alex talked -

No. The last time he and Alex screamed blue murder at each other, they both said some epically shitty things.

Then Michael decided to shack up with Maria and Alex got himself kidnapped. Of the two of those things, Michael’s probably - okay definitely - the only one who should really hold his hand up and say ‘sorry, my bad’. Which he plans to. One hundred percent.

Alex is probably pissed. He’s probably pissed, and traumatized, and will kick Michael in the nuts the second he sees him.

Unless he’s forgotten Michael. No. No. That’ll never happen. Unless it has. He’s a soft, vulnerable, squishy human on a planet full of psychic warriors. Michael has had years and years to torture himself with thoughts of what Alex might be enduring. Now, he gets to find out.

“My King.” There are twelve members of his new High Council. They all great him with elaborate, twirling gestures, heads lowered in supplication. One of them nearly faints with excitement, and Michael’d be a whole lot more flattered if they hadn’t been trying to kill him three days ago.

“S’up,” Michael nods. Behind him, Nil and Tansley, the two Antarian badasses who have damn near run most of his campaigns for him, snigger like children.

There’s a High Chancellor who starts to talk to him about policies and elections of officials and that this palace was build in the year Ancient by Some Guy and where the _fuck_ is Alex?

“The human,” Michael says, interrupting what seems to be a horrifically long speech about marble stairs, “where is he?”

The Council starts muttering to themselves. A whole argument seems to be unfolding in the various twitches of eyebrows as one by one they make contorted expressions, shake their heads and cringe back from the gathered circle. Eventually, one of them squares his shoulders and kneels dramatically at Michael’s feet.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty, but Lord Alexander is…. indisposed.”

“Indispos- what did you assholes do to him?” Michael's going to tear each and every one of them a new fucking asshole. He's going to fucking eviscerate them one by fucking one and-

A second Council member rushes forward. “He is quite unharmed, Sire! He, oh dear…”

Everyone on Antar has magic alien superpowers. It’s a thing. Turns out, Michael’s bag of tricks happens to be a fuck of a lot more powerful here than it was on Earth. The whole damn palace shakes to its foundations with his rage. “ _Where is he_?!”

“He said-“ A third stutters. “Oh, he said-“

“WHAT?”

“He said,” another voice speaks from behind Michael, rooting him to the spot, “that you can tell that curly haired fuck he doesn’t get a free pass just because he traveled across space and invaded a planet. I’m still mad at him.”

Five years. It’s been _five years_. Five whole fucking years on top of another ten fucking years. Michael’s spent more time sleeping than he’s spent with Alex, and yet…

Observation one: if the expression Alex is wearing now is the one he wore that day on Earth, then Michael owes his predecessor an apology. He too is considering proposing marriage and offering to invade half the known universe in Alex’s name.

Observation two: Fuck Alex’s new hair. But also, _fuck_ , Alex’s new hair. It’s long and glossy and Michael wants to bury his fingers in it and… and…

Observation three: delayed, but absolutely more important than both previous observations - Alex is alive.

Michael bounds over to him like an overly enthusiastic puppy and sweeps him clean off his feet.

“Alex!”

It’s probably very un-kingly to be spinning his… his Alex around like they’re in a cheesy rom-com. It’s definitely undignified.

“Guerin,” Alex says, as though he’s not being spun around in happy circles.

“You’re okay!”

“Should I not be?”

Michael sets him down so he can get a better look. There’s stubble on his jaw, the faint shadow of facial hair that he wears by choice instead of by neglect, and you can cut glass on his cheekbones. Add that to the navy blue velvet and gold trimmed suit he’s wearing and he looks like something out of a sci-fi director’s wet dream. There’s a small, thin circlet of gold nestled atop his dark hair and there’s no fucking way his lips are naturally that pink.

One hundred percent would conquer a planet for.

Michael touches his cheek, his jaw, and then throws caution to the wind and spins him around in another boisterous embrace.

“I missed you so fucking much!” He says, careful when he sets Alex back down and pressing his face into the cool curve of his throat. “I’m so sorry. I was so worried about you. You’re okay, right? Please, tell me you’re okay.”

Alex’s hand settles in the curls some poor girl spent an hour trying to tame this morning. The second they connect, his shoulders slump and he relaxes more into Michael’s embrace. “Guerin… Michael. We talked this morning.”

Michael pulls back. “No, we fucking didn’t.” Five years, four months, seven days, eleven hours and... thirteen minutes. That's how long it's been since they talked.

“I distinctly remember saying ‘ _Good luck at the parade, I’ll see you soon_ ’.”

Michael remembers that conversation. He remembers it because he was having it while his hair was being pulled in every which fucking way and -

“Holy SHIT. You’re _him_! You’re - you’re -“ Alex is the guy who has been feeding them information from the start. Alex is the guy who has saved their asses on the battlefield more than once. _Alex_ is the guy who has politically outplayed everyone who has stood between Michael and the throne.

Alex is the guy Michael is supposed to be buying a fucking beer.

Of fucking course he is.

Alex is a terrible damsel in distress.

“Did you seriously not tell him anything?” Alex demands, looking at Nil and Tansley.

“Fuck no,” Nil says. Nil loves the word fuck and uses it more than Michael, which is brilliant and horrifying in equal measures.

“You don’t tell a nuke who fired it,” Tansely says dismissively. “You point it at your enemy and stand well back.”

Alex rounds back on Michael. “How did you _not_ know it was me? Why do you think I’m mad at you, asshole? I’ve been fucking flirting with you over comms for the past four years and you wouldn’t shut up about your _one true love_!”

“He has?” Michael asks Nil, who shrugs. “You have?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Alex snaps. He grabs a fistful of Michael’s ceremonial armor and drags him into a crushing kiss.

Those silver trumpets explode into a chorus.

Michael’s had a hundred and one day dreams of wrapping Alex up in his arms and kissing him in a way that made the past five years vanish, but in reality, it’s Alex working all the magic.

There, right in the heart of Michael’s new kingdom, he’s being dipped like a fucking Disney princess, while Alex kisses him like the whole world depends on their love to sustain them. Michael can hang on, just.

When Alex finally lets him up he’s breathless, dizzy, and willing to amend his promise to invade half the galaxy in Alex’s name to invading the whole fucking thing. Alex can ask for the stars and Micheal will find some way of giving them to him.

“So,” Alex says, straightening the collar of Michael’s uniform, “we should talk.”

Michael has to clear his throat to keep from squeaking. “Talk. Yes. That’s a - we should do that.”

Alex turns a smile on Michael’s High Council that’s made of pure sunshine. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow His Majesty for a few hours.”

A few hours. On the day of his Coronation. They probably mind a whole fucking lot.

Not a single one of them dares protest. More than one of them are blushing under the brilliance of Alex’s attention.

Fucking humans, Michael thinks.

Alex’s hand slips into his own and pulls. Michael follows like a puppy, hopeful and eager as Alex gives him the only tour of the palace he’s interested in.

“Hey, Michael?” he says, breaking off from an explanation on the layout of the private Royal wing - his suite is next to Alex’s and he’s both thrilled and horrified - to turn that smile on Michael and Michael alone. It’s like stepping into the warmth of the sun, a bright place where nothing can ever hurt. “Welcome home.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
